Walking into his bedroom, still naked, he caught his reflection in the full-length mirror. At thirty-four, he kept himself in shape—had to, given his line of work. Tactical operations didn't leave room for weakness. His body was a map of old scars and hard-earned muscle; evidence of a life lived on the edge.
But right now, none of that mattered. All he could think about was when he'd see Becca again.
He pulled open his closet and selected a pair of black boxer briefs, dark jeans, and a fitted henley. Casual butdeliberate. He had a few hours before he needed to meet up with Jace for their mission, but his mind kept drifting back to the tattoo shop, to the way Becca had looked at him, the way her hands had felt on his skin.
Silas grabbed his phone from the nightstand and scrolled to her contact information—the shop's number she'd given him for follow-up appointments. His thumb hovered over the screen.
Too soon? he wondered. Fuck it.
He typed out a message:"Healing looks good. When can I book my next session?"
He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then tossed the phone onto the bed. Whether she responded tonight or tomorrow didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd planted the seed.
Silas ran a hand through his damp hair and exhaled slowly. Tonight he had work to do—dangerous work that required his full focus. But after that? After that, he was going to make damn sure Rebecca knew exactly what kind of effect she had on him.
And he was going to enjoy every second of it.
4 days ago…
Jace and I are back on U.S. soil, the jet barely cooled before we’re back where we belong — the office. Steel, glass, low light. The kind of quiet that only exists after violence has been handled properly.
Another rescue successful. Another set of lives pulled from the dark.
But my mind isn’t settled.
It never is for long.
Jace queues up the surveillance footage tied to Manetto Lionetti — one of the last men standing at the top of an empire built on flesh and fear. Politicians.Judges. Law enforcement. All of them tangled in his pockets like loose change. We’ve been watching him for months. Waiting. Mapping patterns.
Jace fast-forwards.
Rewinds.
Pauses.
“There,” he says.
The screen freezes on Lionetti’s office. Heavy wood paneling. Gold accents. Power disguised as taste. He’s seated behind his desk when the door opens and Jenna Lionetti steps in.
His daughter.
She’s crying.
Real tears, not the performative kind she saves for cameras and charity galas. Mascara smudged. Hands shaking. The spoiled mob princess brought low — and that alone makes my shoulders tense.
I don’t move. I don’t breathe.
But then I hear it.
A name.
Izzy.
It shouldn’t mean anything. Coincidences exist. Names overlap. Cities are big. Lives intersect without touching all the time.
Still… something pulls me forward.
“Play it,” I say quietly.
